Darkest
by SpecialAgentZiva
Summary: Fear, anger, pain - these are the darkest times. From nightmares to gunshots, arguments to deaths, these are the instances in which Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are left to wonder: will they make it out alive? -  *Please read A/N*
1. Nightmare to Reality

**DARKEST**

**A/N I have a tendency to write angsty, dark one-shots and have decided to put these unrelated (unless noted) ficlets together in one place. Please be aware, some of these are dark, some of these are depressing; some of these are death fics, others are nightmares. Some they survive and others they don't. I think you can probably understand from this the reason of the name "Darkest." And so we start the first chapter.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

_In the cover of the night, two hearts beat in sync, rapidly accelerated by adrenaline. The owner of one is bleeding heavily, the red liquid spilling quickly over the makeshift bandage (a no-longer-navy-blue wrapped tightly around his arm) and dripping down onto his hand. There is a gun in his hand, the silver of it flashing brightly in the darkness. It is wet with his own blood, and it slips in his hands whenever he raises it to aim. Each shot goes wild, but he cannot give in. Fighting is the only option he has left._

_The other man is in a better state. His shots are precise, but they take time to set up, and neither men have much time. They are sure backup will find them soon, and emergency services, but, until then, they are on their own. They are outnumbered three to one, and each opponent they drop seems to be replaced by another. It's an endless stream of enemies and they haven't got enough bullets._

_A wild scream stills the night for a moment. The shorter of the two men whips his head sideways, looking for the source. He cannot find anything at first - and then it dawns on him. He is missing his comrade._

_A glance down at the ground finds Sherlock. Blood is leaking from between the pale fingertips that desperately grasp at his chest. His eyes are becoming distant and he is obviously not far from death. Panicked, John drops to his knees and rips off his jumper, the gunfight long since forgotten._

_"Sherlock, no, please," he is screaming despite himself. He isn't even aware of the clouds of people streaming around them, nor the ratio of backup to enemy. He puts more pressure on Sherlock's chest, shocked by the blood that is slowly soaking through the cream jumper. His hands are slick with blood not his own, as they have been many times throughout his life - but this time it's different. It's not a wounded soldier dying at his hands, it's Sherlock._

_"Please!" he screams again, just as Sherlock's heart ceases to beat. He sobs loudly, ignoring the gunshots behind him. He doesn't move for a full minute, and even then he wouldn't have moved voluntarily. A bullet rips through the air, cutting the night in a silver streak, and strikes his back. He falls back, shocked, pain clouding his senses._

_Even as the world fades, Sherlock's piercing scream is replayed over and over in his mind…_

"Oh, God, no," he wakes with a jolt, sitting straight up in bed. His heart is racing. John Watson groggily raises a hands to his face, covering it, when he discovers tears. It confuses him at first. It was just a nightmare, wasn't it?

A twisted smile breaks on his face. Let Sherlock discover him like this. The genius will be completely confused, even more so than he is. Then again, discovering his blogger crying over his "death" would be horrible. John could already imagine the jeers.

Still, there is a slight ache in his heart, and he decides to call for Sherlock anyway.

When there is no answer, he tries again. He is once again met with silence, and he remembers.

The dream was no dream at all; it hits him all at once, the guilt, panic, fear, desperation, depression. All of it is too much for him and he breaks into a round of real sobs. How could he have forgotten? Was it even possible, to wake into the night and forget your flatmate's death?

Still crying, John Watson curls up in the corner of his bed, suddenly feeling very alone. He doesn't bother to call out again.

Sherlock is not answering. He never will.


	2. I've Had Enough

**A/N: Ugh, I'm getting sick. This is bad. :( Considering I have an audition for a drama class on Tuesday. But whatever, that isn't related to this, that's just my rambling. This ficlet is completely unrelated to the one before. Please enjoy the 2nd one-shot in Darkest.**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

"I don't know why you stayed with her, she's so _boring_-"

"Sherlock, _enough_!"

His voice is elevated, the power behind the words so much that it nearly shakes the entire building. Even Sherlock is stunned into silence, staring at John, eyebrows raised. Any words he had dies in his throat. Everything from his ice-blue eyes to his socks conveys the betrayal and shock he feels right now. He tries to find something intelligent to say but instead the only sound he makes it a strangled gasp.

"I have had _enough_ of this!" John is still screaming despite himself. He doesn't know why. There is fire in his eyes and rage pumping through his veins. He is uncontrollable - he cannot stop. "I've had enough of _everything!_ You just can't leave well enough alone, can you? I picked YOU over HER and you can't even be grateful! I loved her, Sherlock, you arrogant ass!"

"Then why did you leave her?"

His voice is so deadly calm that it actually makes John stop for a moment. Despite everything, Sherlock can keep his composure. Even when there is hurt flickering in his eyes, he can look deadly. Still, the words are not enough to abate John's uncontrollable anger, it only makes him pause for a moment.

"I'm not one of your experiments! Stop studying me, stop asking me questions. _I'm sick of it!_ Do you know that, huh? Do you know how far you've pushed this time? Hell, I offered to _fucking die for you_ and I left the _love of my life_ for you and this is all you can do! Push and push and push! Well guess what, Sherlock? There is a line! There is a line and you've crossed it! If I never see you again, it will be too soon!"

With that, he spins on his heel and leaves the flat. The door bangs shut behind him, slamming with enough force to, once again, rock the flat. Sherlock is stunned, staring at the tightly shut door. He stands like this for a full minute before he is sure John is not coming through the door for quite a while. Only then does he let the mask of cold detachment fade into his own face; the shock is fading, replaced by a desperate sadness. He wants so badly to chase John, to catch up to him and apologize and even bow at the man's feet if that's what it takes. But he knows better. That won't do a thing.

So he crumples onto the sofa instead, falling into an uneasy, fitful sleep. He dreams of darkness and knives and blood and John screaming and John screaming at _him_ and then nothing.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright?"

Of course he isn't. His mask is forgotten. Tears run freely down his face, and he is on his knees. He is contaminating evidence and he knows it. He shouldn't be here - God, no, he should've said no. He should've followed John last night. He should've known it would end like this.

And years later he still cries over it, because he never had a chance to say goodbye. John left the flat, and disappeared into the night, to be rediscovered the morning after on the side of the Thames. Sherlock will never rid himself of the guilt.

He will never forget John's last words to him. He will never forget any of it.

_"I loved her, Sherlock, you arrogant ass! _

_"There is a line, and you've crossed it!_

_"If I never see you again, it will be too soon."_

If only he knew.


	3. Fifteen Seconds

**A/N: Uh-oh. This one made me sad. :( It's not overly dark, I suppose, but it's a bit sad. Take that as a warning. I don't own Sherlock, and enjoy if you can.**

Pristine tears fall down a too-pale face, the first tears he's cried in years. He's not entirely sure why he's crying, but he thinks it has to do with what's different this time. He's put his life on the line thousands of times. He's jumped in front of bullets, swallowed dangerous pills, shot bombs, and even gone up in flames. This is just another thing to add to the list… and it will be the last, he's sure of it. Even then, he would normally be alright. He would not outwardly cry. But this is different.

John is with him.

And the moment he remembers this, everything is suddenly worse.

They are trapped together, side-by-side, far too close. Four morbidly gray walls surround them, loom above them, remind them of their situation. There is no escape. Even if Sherlock could pick the lock, they do not have time. In the middle of the room a huge clock sits, its numbers screaming at them as it counts down. They have fifteen seconds left to live, it says.

Fifteen seconds before the world explodes around them in a fiery hell and they are parted forever. Fifteen seconds before their dreams are obliterated and hopes demolished. Fifteen seconds is all it will take to rid the world of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Vaguely, Sherlock wonders if the world will remember them for more than fifteen seconds, or fifteen minutes at most. After all, wasn't everyone entitled to fifteen minutes of fame?

Fifteen seconds soon turn to fourteen but they have yet to look at each other. Emotions are flashing between them like wildfire, ripping through one before doing the same to the other. It's as if emotions are electricity, jumping back and forth through the contact point maintained between them. Rage. Disbelief. Disappointment. Panic. Fear. _Fear._ Their minds stutter over this for a moment. Neither are used to fear, but it is destroying them. Fourteen seconds becomes thirteen.

Another silent tear slips down Sherlock's cheek, and, beside him, John lets out a sob. Sherlock wants so badly to reach for his friend, but his mind is still hesitating. His pale hands ball into fists at his sides, and thirteen becomes twelve.

John is inwardly fighting, but he is not strong enough. Years of training as a soldier have not prepared him for this. The wait is brutal. Waiting for his life to end, watching the clock tick by. And he wants so badly to reach for his friend, but he can't bring himself to do it. The stress forces a sob out of him, and tears are like silent assaults. Twelve becomes eleven.

Memories flash by Sherlock's eyes. He hates that he's so weak, everything that has built him up is falling down around him. He's partially blaming John, but how can he? Many of his memories are bad ones. Friendless to family issues to violence to drugs… to John, the one good ray in his life. But he still cannot make himself move. Eleven ticks down to ten.

John closes his eyes for a moment. He thinks thousands of things at once, trying to find the right thing to die with. A good thought or memory is all he wants now. There isn't much he can ask for anyway. He could plead for his life or Sherlock's, but it wouldn't do a thing. So he searches his mind, combs it for the best thing that's ever happened to him, and ten becomes nine.

He sifts through memories of his career as a medical doctor. He remembers the screaming, the blood, the terror, and, most of all, the lives he saved. He remembers his best friend living through a roadside bomb and he remembers the joy. He decides that this is the best memory and scrambles to hold onto it, but other memories bombard him. Nine becomes eight, and he's thinking of Sherlock.

Sherlock is trying hard not to think of recent times. His mind is a roadmap; he wants to skip the turns that lead to John. But he can't help it. His mind is stuttering again. He can't get him out of his head. Sherlock breathes in deep, and eight becomes seven.

They are frozen in the moment, their minds stopped, eyes now open, staring at the clock. Seven is becoming six and they have spent far too long in their own minds. Emotions rage through them again, setting fire to their veins. The tears begin to fall fast. Six becomes five, and they turn in sync.

For a vital second, they stare at anything but one another. The clock ticks down to four and their eyes meet, ice blue on brown. A silent message passes through them, carrying more emotion than anything else. Breath hitches in throats, and four becomes three.

Sherlock reaches down, and John reaches up. Their arms envelope one another. Sherlock isn't even guilty at the amount of pressure he's putting on John, his hands balled up in the fabric of the good doctor's jumper. Three becomes two, and his tears fall on the other man's hair. A strangled gasp splits the silence. He is unable to hold it back.

Two becomes one.

Tears mix and fear still rages on, but they are together in the last second. The screaming in their minds has stilled. With one last shaky breath, Sherlock forces the other man closer to him. They are pressed closer than ever, arms like vice grips around one another.

One becomes zero, and the world explodes in a fiery burst of light.

**A/N: D:**


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